Atlas Minor Digest
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Looking at these paintings, it's hard to believe I've been sober for eight years. But it feels good to do something for its own sake, results be damned.
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They're like another species to me, these people who believe they know what's going on and what will happen next.
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The memory of sitting in a church in a different country feels as though it belongs to some lost golden age.
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I need a word for the slightly hungover sensation after a mindless bout of clicking and scrolling—a term for shaking off the digital residue.
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“Sometimes I think they are graceful like ballerinas,” he said as we drove. “Other times, I think they are wicked.”
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"You'll be working at least seventeen hours on Election Day," he said. "So bring a sandwich."
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Sometimes I idle in the parking lot of a strip mall after midnight. 
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I’ve been dreaming about tollbooth operators lately, maybe because they remind me of the years I spent working at a gas station.
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These days the sight of someone’s mouth at the supermarket looks like an obscenity. We can get used to the strangest things.
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The amount of incense smoke that darkens a temple’s ceiling indicates the popularity of that particular god.
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This pandemic season reminds me of the logic of grief: the constant loop of forgetting followed by painfully remembering that everything has changed.
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“I need to go outside,” I heard an old man say. “Otherwise the bad juju starts bouncing off the walls.”
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